


Forever (is a blessing spent with you)

by SpideyFics



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Art, Blood Drinking, Character Turned Into Vampire, Consensual Blood Drinking, Digital Art, F/M, Vampire MJ, Vampire Michelle Jones, Vampire!MJ, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:35:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27232114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpideyFics/pseuds/SpideyFics
Summary: He’s standing close enough that she can smell the warm, sweet blood that pumps through his veins, and she licks her lips, her canines lengthening and sharpening in response. She’s sohungry.“I’ve watched you – bite the people I’ve webbed up, watched you feed. Like some kind of –"“Vampire?”
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Comments: 42
Kudos: 75





	Forever (is a blessing spent with you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Machiavelien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Machiavelien/gifts), [seekrest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekrest/gifts).



> Alternate summary, as suggested by the wonderful [frostysunflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostysunflowers) \- SEXY VAMPIRE TIMES READ PLZ.
> 
> Gifted to the ridiculously talented [Machiavelien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Machiavelien) for starting the vampire MJ trend, and the equally talented [seekrest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekrest), for being a constant cheerleader to the spideychelle fandom.

He comes to her in the small, dark hours of the night, stalking her soundlessly through the shadows.

Despite his stealth, she still hears his heart – a steady, strong, thump that is slow and measured. She’s been watching him from a distance for months, his black-clad body solid and toned as he moves through the city, silently and efficiently stopping crimes and leaving the perpetrators bound like plump, juicy flies caught in a web.

He has been unknowingly providing her sustenance for the last year, saving her the task of tracking down people who operate outside the boundaries of acceptable society. She never takes more than she needs, never feeds to the point that she is satiated; she leaves them docile and enthralled, quietly awaiting arrest.

His prowess and his webbing reminds her of a boy she knew when she was still a girl, but that boy died long ago, forever nineteen and destined to never grow old, his memory a snarling knot of grief she keeps tucked inside her silent, still heart. She had been turned not long after his death, forced to leave the only life she’d ever known for an eternity of darkness, but he had stayed with her for all these years.

She turns away as he draws closer, pulling her hair forward over her shoulder to expose the long, naked curve of her back, the blood-red scoop of her silk dress skimming just above her buttocks. She reaches out with her thrall, letting a touch of her power curl around him like a sensuous brush of fingers, intrigued when there’s no answering pulse of enraptured desire.

“You’ve been following me,” she says, hearing his breath catch in his throat. 

“I could say the same about you,” he answers. He sounds simultaneously young yet terribly old, his voice pitched high, but heavy with the weight of life, and she’s once again reminded of the boy who broke her heart a lifetime ago.

He’s standing close enough that she can smell the warm, sweet blood that pumps through his veins, and she licks her lips, her canines lengthening and sharpening in response. She’s so _hungry._

“I’ve watched you – bite the people I’ve webbed up, watched you feed. Like some kind of –“

“Vampire?” she finishes, shifting her hips so the silk swathe across her lower back slips across her skin. He may not be in her thrall, but his heart rate has increased, and she can smell his arousal.

“Yes,” he says, taking another step closer, until he’s within arm’s reach. “But you don’t kill them. I’ve seen others like you who don’t leave people alive.”

“I don’t take more than I need,” she says. “I’ve seen too many pointless deaths to be the cause of more.” She faces him, her face still draped in shadows, and he gasps, his hand covering his masked mouth as he staggers backwards.

“MJ,” he whispers, barely audible, but she hears it anyway, and if her heart still pulsed, it would have skipped a beat upon hearing a name she hadn’t been called in many decades.

She trails a hand across his masked cheek, and he covers her fingers with his own. “MJ,” he says again, and this time he sounds broken, wretched. “Michelle.”

Slowly, her fingers work under the bottom of his mask, and he lets her roll the thick, knitted fabric up and off his head, revealing a face she hasn’t seen in eighty years, still young, still earnest, still _Peter._

“You’re dead,” she murmurs, even as her fingers trace his familiar features. “You died in my arms. I went to your funeral.” She hasn’t cried since she was human, but wetness pools at the corner of her eyes, and she blinks, unused to the sensation.

“And then I woke up,” he says, turning his face to press his lips against the palm of her hand. “They kept me locked away for years, and when I escaped, everyone thought I’d died years ago. They’d moved on. And you were dead.” His voice breaks, tears beading along his lower lashes, and she instinctively wipes them away with the pad of her thumb. “I can’t die, Em.”

His resigned tone tells her he’s tried to end his life more than once, and she wonders how it feels to be truly, irrevocably immortal. How often had he closed his eyes for what he hoped would be the final time, only to open them again? She at least can burn, welcome the dawn and subsequent oblivion should it all become too lonely – he’s denied even that solace. There’s no light at the end of the tunnel for Peter Parker, no final destination for his journey.

“Do you trust me?” she asks, and he nods. “I have a place on 66th and Madison. Swing us there.”

He wraps his arm around her waist and holds her like she’s something precious, and she feels truly cherished for the first time in her preternatural life. She hoists the skirt of her dress up, hooking her legs around his thighs, and she’s seventeen again, giddy with the flush of requited love that blossomed on a bridge in London.

They swing high above the harshly lit streets of Manhattan, her hair whipping around them as the cool night air chills them to the bone. She doesn’t feel the cold – she lost the ability to shiver the night she turned – but he is shuddering by the time they land silently and softly on the balcony of her apartment.

She leads him inside, locking the French doors and lowering the thick blackout blind before closing the heavy curtains. Dawn, still three hours away, is already itching her skin, making her anxious.

Moving with ease through the pitch black room, she switches on the lamp, bathing the room in a soothing, warm glow that makes her feel like she is basking in the sun she is no longer allowed to see. The light clings to him like a lover, caressing the angles of his face, the curve of his muscles, and he smiles at her, the closed-lipped, shy grin she’d fallen in love with.

“Sit,” she says, as she sinks into the embrace of the velvet couch that has been with her for half a century, the one thing – other than her books – that she keeps as she moves from place to place. She pats the seat next to her. “I won’t bite,” she jokes, and he lets out a sudden, surprised bark of laughter as he sits, his thigh pressed against hers.

“Nice place,” he says, stripping off his jacket as he looks around. The room is small, decorated for comfort rather than style; three of the four walls are lined with shelves, crammed with the books that are the only company she keeps when she hides away from the sun. “So, what happened? How did you become …” he trails off awkwardly, gesturing at her.

She tells him her story, how her grief over his apparent death had led to her wandering the streets at night, unable to sleep and unwilling to toss and turn in her bed. She’d been grabbed and bitten and turned six weeks later, thrown into an unending life she didn’t want, torn from everyone and everything she’d ever known. Her every whim was catered to, she had access to more money than she would ever need, but she was cursed to live an endless and lonely life, unwilling to turn a human or enslave a familiar.

In turn he tells her about waking up on the autopsy table in a S.H.I.E.L.D. mortuary and being held captive for ten years, experimented on by a rogue division of scientists determined to find the secret of his immortality. He’d eventually escaped with the help of Nick Fury, who provided him with money, a new identity, and a scholarship to study biochem at UCLA, cautioning him to stay away from New York until everyone he’d known was dead. He bounced from identity to identity, moving every decade or so to prevent people becoming suspicious of his perpetual adolescence, only returning to New York when he read that Betty, their last living classmate, had died.

Their lives have been forced down similar paths, both of them lonely and isolated, unable to put down roots or nurture relationships. They’re both old and tired yet wrapped in eternal youth.

He yawns as he finishes his story, the late hour taking its toll. “Do you have a bedroom?” He blushes as he realizes how his question could be interpreted and attempts to backtrack. “Not like that! Just – do you sleep in a coffin?”

The flush of pink across his cheeks is distracting, reminding her of the blood flowing beneath his skin, stirring her hunger, and her hand moves instinctively to the pulse below the sharp line of his jaw.

He flinches, but not from repulsion. “Your fingers are cold,” he says, capturing both of her hands within his own, chaffing them in an effort to rub warmth into her skin.

“I haven’t eaten since yesterday,” she tells him, forcing herself to look away from the tempting, pale stretch of his neck, and the pulse fluttering in the hollow of his throat. “And to answer your question, I sleep in a bed.”

“When you say you haven’t eaten … you mean – “

“Blood,” she finishes. “I was going to feed tonight, but you dropped back into my life after eighty years and my plans suddenly changed.”

His teeth work nervously at his lower lip for a moment, his hands still gently rubbing warmth into hers. “You could – you know. Bite me. Feed from me.” The way his demeanor changes - his eyes avoiding hers, his foot tapping rapidly against the floor – tells her that he most likely approached her with this outcome in mind, even before he knew who she was, and has been waiting for the right moment to suggest it. It’s not the first time she’s been asked to feed from someone, but it is the first time she’s been asked by someone she knows.

She unconsciously leans closer as he talks, taking in his scent. “I don’t know that I could control myself enough to feed from you without taking too much.”

He shrugs. “I ‘died’ from blood loss once. It was no big deal, I woke up an hour later. You’re not going to kill me. You can’t.” He rubs at his jaw, and she tracks the movement of his fingers against his white, unmarked skin. “Please. I just want to feel – something. Anything. I don’t have anyone left and I’m numb.”

“You have me,” she tells him, slipping her fingers into his mask-mussed hair. It’s as soft as she remembers, curling around her fingertips. He radiates warmth and life; it’s intoxicating, and she can’t resist much longer. “Are you sure about this?”

In answer, he tugs the v-neck of his t-shirt down, exposing more of his neck. “Do it,” he says, his eyes screwed shut, his body tense. When she doesn’t bite him, he opens one eye and squints at her, frowning when he sees her laughing. “What’s wrong?”

“Come here.” She pats her thigh and he reclines across her lap, his legs stretched across the couch and his head pillowed against her chest. She supports his head with one hand, and her other splays across his stomach. “Relax,” she whispers, leaning forward until her mouth is almost touching his, so close that she can feel his warm, sweet breath against her lips.

His eyes close again and he turns trustingly towards her, shivering as she delicately tastes the soft skin at the juncture of his jaw and ear. She presses her lips to the side of his neck, feeling his carotid artery pulse strongly against the swipe of her tongue, then sinks her fangs into his skin.

His blood instantly wells up into her mouth and she swallows greedily, lapping up the hot liquid as it floods over her tongue. He tastes like the first strawberry of summer, the salty tang of a windswept beach; rich and heady and full of power, and she’s instantly addicted.

He moans as she feeds, but not in distress. The hand nearest to her wraps around her bicep, the other finding her hand against his abdomen and entwining their fingers. Feeding from him feels like coming home, the missing connection she’s been chasing for years. It’s just her and him wrapped up in one another, the combined center of their own little world.

She drinks deeply, far past the point she would with an unenhanced human, the steady thump of his heart a reassuring counterpoint to the sound of her sucking. She only stops when she hears his pulse slow a little – despite his assurances, she has no desire to test his immortality for herself – and besides, she is replete, the warmth of his blood giving her body the façade of life and satiating her hunger.

He stirs in her arms, loose limbed and completely relaxed. His mouth is curved in a blissful, dreamy smile, and despite the blood loss, his lips are pink and his skin rosy as his body rapidly heals. The puncture wounds at his neck are oozing two small drops of blood and are already starting to heal; her lipstick is smeared across his skin like a brand, claiming him as hers.

With his humanity in her belly, it’s easy to slip back into the love she’d had for him as a mortal girl. It had been dizzying and a little terrifying then, loving him so completely when they were so young. But now, it’s safe and comforting, and she feels momentarily alive again.

“Stay with me,” she says impulsively, caught in a rush of affection that warms her almost as much as his blood. “I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

“I’m yours,” he assures her, his voice tired but content. “Forever.”

‘Forever’ had once seemed like a curse, but now it feels like a blessing, a promise of life, instead of mere existence.

They fall asleep as the city wakes, curled around one another in her bed. Her dreams are usually of walking into daylight and letting herself blissfully burn, but instead she dreams of him, of his warm skin and kind eyes, and the way he looks at her, like she’s his everything.

She’s no longer alone. She may be cursed to live an eternity, but at least she’ll be living it with him.

**Author's Note:**

> It's spooky season, and I'm all aboard the Vampire MJ train. This is a little stylistic experiment for me, and my first proper venture into digital art, so I hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> Thanks to iarrannme for looking this over for me.


End file.
